CHAPTER XIII
Berkley's first letter to her was written during that week oflovely weather, the first week in March. The birds never sang moredeliriously, the regimental bands never played more gaily; everycamp was astir in the warm sunshine with companies, regiments,brigades, or divisions drilling.
At the ceremonies of guard mount and dress parade the country wasthronged with visitors from Washington, ladies in gay gowns andscarfs, Congressmen in silk hats and chokers, apparently forgetfulof their undignified role in the late affair at Bull Run--evenchildren with black mammies in scarlet turbans and white wooldresses came to watch a great army limbering up after a winter ofinaction.
He wrote to her:
"Dearest, it has been utterly impossible for me to obtain leave ofabsence and a pass to go as far as the Farm Hospital. I tried torun the guard twice, but had to give it up. I'm going to try againas soon as there seems any kind of a chance.
"We have moved our camp. Why, heaven knows. If our generalunderstood what cavalry is for we would have been out longago--miles from here--if to do nothing more than make a few mapswhich, it seems, our august leaders entirely lack.
"During the night the order came: 'This division will move at fouro'clock in the morning with two days' rations.' All night long wewere at work with axe and hammer, tearing down quarters, packingstores, and loading our waggons.
"We have an absurd number of waggons. There is an infantryregiment camped near us that has a train of one hundred andthirty-six-mule teams to transport its household goods. It's the77th New York,
"The next morning the sun rose on our army in motion. You say thatI am a scoffer. I didn't scoff at that spectacle. We were onFlint Hill; and, as far as we could see around us, the whole worldwas fairly crawling with troops. Over them a rainbow hung. Laterit rained, as you know.
"I'm wet, Ailsa. The army for the first time is under sheltertents. The Sibley wall tents and wedge tents are luxuries of thepast for officers and men alike.
"The army--that is, the bulk of it--camped at five. We--thecavalry--went on to see what we could see around Centreville; butthe rebels had burned it, so we came back here where we don'tbelong--a thousand useless men armed with a thousand uselessweapons. Because, dear, our lances are foolish things, picturesquebut utterly unsuited to warfare in such a country as this.
"You see, I've become the sort of an ass who is storing upinformation and solving vast and intricate problems in order to bekind to my superiors when, struck with panic at their own tardilydiscovered incapacity, they rush to me in a body to ask me how todo it.
"Rush's Lancers are encamped near you now; our regiment is not farfrom them. If I can run the guard I'll do it. I'm longing to seeyou, dear.
"I've written to Celia, as you know, so she won't be too muchastonished if I sneak into the gallery some night.
"I've seen a lot of Zouaves, the 5th, 9th, 10th, and otherregiments, but not the 3rd. What a mark they make of themselves intheir scarlet and blue. Hawkins' regiment, the 9th, is lessconspicuous, wearing only the red headgear and facings, butDuryea's regiment is a sight! A magnificent one from thespectacular stand-point, but the regiments in blue stand a betterchance of being missed by the rebel riflemen. I certainly wishColonel Craig's Zouaves weren't attired like tropical butterflies.But for heaven's sake don't say this to Celia.
"Well, you see, I betray the cloven hoof of fear, even when I writeyou. It's a good thing that I know I am naturally a coward;because I may learn to be so ashamed of my legs that I'll never runat all, either way.
"Dear, I'm too honest with you to make promises, and far toointelligent not to know that when people begin shooting at eachother somebody is likely to get hit. It is instinctive in me toavoid mutilation and extemporary death if I can do it. I realisewhat it means when the air is full of singing, buzzing noises; whentwigs and branches begin to fall and rattle on my cap and saddle;when weeds and dead grass are snipped off short beside me; whenevery mud puddle is starred and splashed; when whack! smack! whack!on the stones come flights of these things you hear about, andhear, and never see. And--it scares me.
"But I'm trying to figure out that, first, I am safer if I do whatmy superiors tell me to do; second, that it's a dog's life anyway;third, that it's good enough for me, so why run away from it?
"Some day some of these Johnnies will scare me so that I'll startafter them. There's no fury like a man thoroughly frightened.
"Nobody has yet been hurt in any of the lancer regiments except oneof Rush's men, who got tangled up in the woods and wounded himselfwith his own lance.
"Oh, these lances! And oh, the cavalry! And, alas! a general whodoesn't know how to use his cavalry.
"No sooner does a cavalry regiment arrive than, bang! it's split upinto troops--a troop to escort General A., another to gallop afterGeneral B., another to sit around headquarters while General C.dozes after dinner! And, if it's not split up, it's detailedbodily on some fool's job instead of being packed off under a lineofficer to find out what is happening just beyond the end of thecommander's nose.
"The visitors like to see us drill--like to see us charge, redpennons flying, lances at rest. I like to see Rush's Lancers, too.But, all the same, sometimes when we go riding gaily down the road,some of those dingy, sunburnt Western regiments who have been toobusy fighting to black their shoes line up along the road andrepeat, monotonously:
"'Who-ever-saw-a-dead-cavalryman?'
"It isn't what they say, Ailsa, it's the expression of their dirtyfaces that turns me red, sometimes, and sometimes incites me towild mirth.
"I'm writing this squatted under my 'tente d'abri.' GeneralMcClellan, with a preposterous staff the size of a small brigade,has just passed at a terrific gallop--a handsome, mild-eyed man whohas made us into an army, and who ornaments headquarters with anentire squadron of Claymore's 20th Dragoons and one of our own 8thLancers. Well, some day he'll come to me and say: 'Ormond, Iunderstand that there is only one man in the entire army fit tocommand it. Accept this cocked hat.'
"That detail would suit me, dear. I could get behind the casematesof Monroe and issue orders. I was cut out to sit in a good, thickcasemate and bring this cruel war to an end.
"A terribly funny thing happened at Alexandria. A raw infantryregiment was camped near the seminary, and had managed to flounderthrough guard mount. The sentinels on duty kept a sharp lookoutand turned out the guard every time a holiday nigger hove in sight;and sentinels and guard and officer were getting awfully tired oftheir mistakes; and the day was hot, and the sentinels grew sleepy.
"Then one sentry, dozing awake, happened to turn and glance towardthe woods; and out of it, over the soft forest soil, and alreadynearly on top of him, came a magnificent cavalcade at fullgallop--the President, and Generals McClellan and Benjamin Butlerleading.
"Horror paralyzed him, then he ran toward the guard house,shrieking at the top of his lungs:
"'Great God! Turn out the guard! Here comes Old Abe and LittleMac and Beast Butler!'
"And that's all the camp gossip and personal scandal that I have torelate to you, dear.
"I'll run the guard if I can, so help me Moses!
"And I am happier than I have ever been in all my life. If I don'trun under fire you have promised not to stop loving me. That isthe bargain, remember.
"Here comes your late lamented. I'm no favorite of his, nor he ofmine. He did me a silly trick the other day--had me up before theColonel because he said that it had been reported to him that I hadenlisted under an assumed name.
"I had met the Colonel. He looked at me and said:
"'Is Ormond your name?'
"'Is Ormond your name?'"]
"I said: 'It is, partly.'
"He said: 'Then it is sufficient to fight under.'
"Ailsa, I am going to tell you something. It has to do with me, asyou know me, and it has to do with Colonel Arran.
"I'm afraid I'm going to hurt you; but I'm also afraid it will benec
essary.
"Colonel Arran is your friend. But, Ailsa, I am his implacableenemy. Had I dreamed for one moment that the Westchester Horse wasto become the 10th troop of Arran's Lancers, I would never havejoined it.
"It was a bitter dose for me to swallow when my company was sworninto the United States service under this man.
"Since, I have taken the matter philosophically. He has notannoyed me, except by being alive on earth. He showed a certainprimitive decency in not recognizing me when he might have done itin a very disagreeable fashion. I think he was absolutelyastonished to see me there; but he never winked an eyelash. I givethe devil his due.
"All this distresses you, dear. But I cannot help it; you wouldhave to know, sometime, that Colonel Arran and I are enemies. Solet it go at that; only, remembering it, avoid always anyuncomfortable situation which must result in this man and myselfmeeting under your roof."
His letter ended in lighter vein--a gay message to Celia, a cordialone to Letty, and the significant remark that he expected to seeher very soon.
The next night he tried to run the guard, and failed.
She had written to him, begging him not to; urging the observanceof discipline, while deploring their separation--a sweet, confusedletter, breathing in every line her solicitation for him, her newfaith and renewed trust in him.
Concerning what he had told her about his personal relations withColonel Arran she had remained silent--was too unhappy andastonished to reply. Thinking of it later, it recalled to her mindCelia's studied avoidance of any topic in which Colonel Arranfigured. She did not make any mental connection between Celia'sdislike for the man and Berkley's--the coincidence merely made herdoubly unhappy.
And, one afternoon when Letty was on duty and she and Celia werebusy with their mending in Celia's room, she thought aboutBerkley's letter and his enmity, and remembered Celia's silentaversion at the same moment.
"Celia," she said, looking up, "would you mind telling me what itis that you dislike about my old and very dear friend, ColonelArran?"
Celia continued her needlework for a few moments. Then, withoutraising her eyes, she said placidly:
"You have asked me that befo', Honey-bird."
"Yes, dear. . . . You know it is not impertinent curiosity----"
"I know what it is, Honey-bee. But you can not he'p this gentlemanand myse'f to any ground of common understanding."
"I am so sorry," sighed Ailsa, resting her folded hands on her workand gazing through the open window.
Celia continued to sew without glancing up. Presently she said:
"I reckon I'll have to tell you something about Colonel Arran afterall. I've meant to for some time past. Because--because mysilence condemns him utterly; and that is not altogether just."She bent lower over her work; her needle travelled more slowly asshe went on speaking:
"In my country, when a gentleman considers himse'f aggrieved, heasks fo' that satisfaction which is due to a man of hisquality. . . . But Colonel Arran did not ask. And when it wasoffered, he refused." Her lips curled. "He cited the _Law_,"she said with infinite contempt.
"But Colonel Arran is not a Southerner," observed Ailsa quietly."You know how all Northerners feel----"
"It happened befo' you were born, Honey-bud. Even the No'threcognised the code then."
"Is _that_ why you dislike Colonel Arran? Because he refused tochallenge or be challenged when the law of the land forbade privatemurder?"
Celia's cheeks flushed deeply; she tightened her lips; then:
"The law is not made fo' those in whom the higher law is inherent,"she said calmly. "It is made fo' po' whites and negroes."
"Celia!"
"It is true, Honey-bird. When a gentleman breaks the law thatmakes him one, it is time fo' him to appeal to the lower law. AndColonel Arran did so."
"What was his grievance?"
"A deep one, I reckon. He had the right on his side--and his ownlaw to defend it, and he refused. And the consequences were ve'ydreadful."
"To--him?"
"To us all. . . . His punishment was certain."
"Was he punished?"
"Yes. Then, in his turn, _he_ punished--terribly. But not as agentleman should. Fo' in that code which gove'ns us, no man canraise his hand against a woman. He must endure all things; he maynot defend himse'f at any woman's expense; he may not demandjustice at the expense of any woman. It is the privilege of hiscaste to endure with dignity what cannot be remedied or revengedexcept through the destruction of a woman. . . . And Colonel Arraninvoked the lower law; and the justice that was done himdestroyed--a woman."
She looked up steadily into Ailsa's eyes.
"She was only a young girl, Honey-bud--too young to marry anybody,too inexperienced to know her own heart until it was too late.
"And Colonel Arran came; and he was ve'y splendid, and handsome,and impressive in his cold, heavy dignity, and ve'y certain thatthe child must marry him--so certain that she woke up one day andfound that she had done it. And learned that she did not love him.
"There was a boy cousin. He was reckless, I reckon; and she wasve'y unhappy; and one night he found her crying in the garden; andthere was a ve'y painful scene, and she let him kiss the hem of herpetticoat on his promise to go away fo' ever. And--Colonel Arrancaught him on his knees, with the lace to his lips--and the childwife crying. . . . He neither asked nor accepted satisfaction; hethreatened the--_law_! And that settled him with her, I reckon,and she demanded her freedom, and he refused, and she took it.
"Then she did a ve'y childish thing; she married the boy--orsupposed she did----"
Celia's violet eyes grew dark with wrath:
"And Colonel Arran went into co't with his lawyers and hiswitnesses and had the divorce set aside--and publicly made thissilly child her lover's mistress, and their child nameless! Thatwas the justice that the law rendered Colonel Arran. And now youknow why I hate him--and shall always hate and despise him."
Ailsa's head was all awhirl; lips parted, she stared at Celia instunned silence, making as yet no effort to reconcile the memory ofthe man she knew with this cold, merciless, passionless portrait.
Nor did the suspicion occur to her that there could be theslightest connection between her sister-in-law's contempt forColonel Arran and Berkley's implacable enmity.
All the while, too, her clearer sense of right and justice criedout in dumb protest against the injury done to the man who had beenher friend, and her parents' friend--kind, considerate, loyal,impartially just in all his dealings with her and with the world,as far as she had ever known.
From Celia's own showing the abstract right and justice of thematter had been on his side; no sane civilisation could toleratethe code that Celia cited. The day of private vengeance was over;the era of duelling was past in the North--was passing in theSouth. And, knowing Colonel Arran, she knew also that twenty oddyears ago his refusal to challenge had required a higher form ofcourage than to face the fire of a foolish boy's pistol.
And now, collecting her disordered thoughts, she began tounderstand what part emotion and impulse had played in the painfuldrama--how youthful ignorance and false sentiment had combined toinvest a silly but accidental situation with all the superficialdignity of tragedy.
What must it have meant to Colonel Arran, to this quiet, slow,respectable man of the world, to find his girl wife crying in themoonlight, and a hot-headed boy down on his knees, mumbling thelace edge of her skirts?
What must it have meant to him--for the chances were that he hadnot spoken the first word--to be confronted by an excited,love-smitten, reckless boy, and have a challenge flung in his facebefore he had uttered a word.
No doubt his calm reply was to warn the boy to mind his businessunder penalty of law. No doubt the exasperated youth defiedhim--insulted him--declared his love--carried the other child offher feet with the exaggerated emotion and heroics. And, once offtheir feet, she saw how the tide had swept them together--sweptthem irrevocably bey
ond reason and recall.
Ailsa rose and stood by the open window, looking out across thehills; but her thoughts were centred on Colonel Arran's tragedy,and the tragedy of those two hot-headed children whom hispunishment had out-lawed.
Doubtless his girl wife had told him how the boy had come to bethere, and that she had banished him; but the clash betweenmaturity and adolescence is always inevitable; the misunderstandingbetween ripe experience and Northern logic, and emotionalinexperience and Southern impulse was certain to end in disaster.
Ailsa considered; and she knew that now her brief for Colonel Arranwas finished, for beyond the abstract right she had no sympathywith the punishment he had dealt out, even though his conscienceand civilisation and the law of the land demanded the punishment ofthese erring' ones.
No, the punishment seemed too deeply tainted with vengeance for herto tolerate.
A deep unhappy sigh escaped her. She turned mechanically, seatedherself, and resumed her sewing.
"I suppose I ought to be asleep," she said. "I am on dutyto-night, and they've brought in so many patients from the newregiments."
Celia bent and bit off her thread, then passing the needle into thehem, laid her work aside.
"Honey-bud," she said, "you are ve'y tired. If you'll undress I'llgive you a hot bath and rub you and brush your hair."
"Oh, Celia, will you? I'd feel so much better." She gave a daintylittle shudder and made a wry face, adding:
"I've had so many dirty, sick men to cleanse--oh, incredibly dirtyand horrid!--poor boys--it doesn't seem to be their fault, either;and they are so ashamed and so utterly miserable when I am obligedto know about the horror of their condition. . . . Dear, it willbe angelic of you to give me a good, hot scrubbing. I could go tosleep if you would."
"Of co'se I will," said Celia simply. And, when Ailsa was ready tocall her in she lifted the jugs of water which a negro hadbrought--one cold, one boiling hot--entered Ailsa's room, filledthe fiat tin tub; and, when Ailsa stepped into it, proceeded toscrub her as though she had been two instead of twenty odd.
Then, her glowing body enveloped in a fresh, cool sheet, she layback and closed her eyes while Celia brushed the dull gold massesof her hair.
"Honey-bee, they say that all the soldiers are in love with you,even my po' Confederate boys in Ward C. Don't you dare corrupttheir loyalty!"
"They are the dearest things--all of them," smiled Ailsa sleepily,soothed by the skilful brushing. "I have never had one cross word,one impatient look from Union or Confederate." She added: "Theysay in Washington that we women are not needed--that we are in theway--that the sick don't want us. . . . Some very importantpersonage from Washington came down to the General Hospital andannounced that the Government was going to get rid of all womennurses. And such a dreadful row those poor sick soldiers made!Dr. West told us; he was there at the time. And it seems that thepersonage went back to Washington with a very different story totell the powers that be. So I suppose they've concluded to let usalone."
"It doesn't surprise me that a Yankee gove'nment has no use fo'women," observed Celia.
"Hush, dear. That kind of comment won't do. Besides, some horridstories were afloat about some of the nurses not being all theyought to be."
"That sounds ve'y Yankee, too!"
"Celia! And perhaps it was true that one or two among thousandsmight not have been everything they should have been," admittedAilsa, loyal to her government in everything. "And perhaps one ortwo soldiers were insolent; but neither Letty Lynden nor I haveever heard one unseemly word from the hundreds and hundreds ofsoldiers we have attended, never have had the slightest hint ofdisrespect from them."
"They certainly do behave ve'y well," conceded Celia, brushing awayvigorously. "They behave like our Virginians."
Ailsa laughed, then, smiling reflectively, glanced at her handwhich still bore the traces of a healed scar. Celia noticed herexamining the slender, uplifted hand, and said:
"You promised to tell me how you got that scar, Honey-bud."
"I will, now--because the man who caused it has gone North."
"A--man!"
"Yes, poor fellow. When the dressings were changed the agonycrazed him and he sometimes bit me. I used to be so annoyed," sheadded mildly, "and I used to shake my forefinger at him and say,'Now it's got to be done, Jones; will you promise not to bite me.'And the poor fellow would promise with tears in his eyes--and thenhe'd forget--poor boy----"
"I'd have slapped him," said Celia, indignantly. "What a darlingyou are, Ailsa! . . . Now bundle into bed," she added, "becauseyou haven't any too much time to sleep, and poor little LettyLynden will be half dead when she comes off duty."
Letty really appeared to be half dead when she arrived, and bentwearily over the bed where Ailsa now lay in calm-breathing, rosyslumber.
"Oh, you sweet thing!" she murmured to herself, "you can sleep fortwo hours yet, but you don't know it." And, dropping her garmentsfrom her, one by one, she bathed and did up her hair and crept inbeside Ailsa very softly, careful not to arouse her.
But Ailsa, who slept lightly, awoke, turned on her pillow, passedone arm around Letty's dark curls.
"I'll get up," she said drowsily. "Why didn't Flannery call me?"
"You can sleep for an hour or two yet, darling," cooed Letty,nestling close to her. "Mrs. Craig has taken old Bill Symonds, andthey'll be on duty for two hours more."
"How generous of Celia--and of old Symonds, too. Everybody seemsto be so good to me here."
"Everybody adores you, dear," whispered Letty, her lips againstAilsa's flushed cheek. "Don't you know it?"
Ailsa laughed; and the laugh completed her awakening past all hopeof further slumber.
"You quaint little thing," she said, looking at Letty. "Youcertainly are the most engaging girl I ever knew."
Letty merely lay and looked her adoration, her soft cheek pillowedon Ailsa's arm. Presently she said:
"Do you remember the first word you ever spoke to me?"
"Yes, I do."
"And--you asked me to come and see you."
"Who wouldn't ask you--little rosebud?"
But Letty only sighed and closed her eyes; nor did she awaken whenAilsa cautiously withdrew her arm and slipped out of bed.
She still had an hour and more; she decided to dress and go out fora breath of fresh, sweet air to fortify her against the heavyatmosphere of the sick wards.
It was not yet perfectly dark; the thin edge of the new moon traceda pale curve in the western sky; frogs were trilling; a night-birdsang in a laurel thicket unceasingly.
The evening was still, but the quiet was only comparative because,always, all around her, the stirring and murmur of the vast armynever entirely ended.
But the drums and bugles, answering one another from hill to hill,from valley to valley, had ceased; she saw the reddening embers ofthousands of camp fires through the dusk; every hill was jewelled,every valley gemmed.
In the darkness she could hear the ground vibrate under the steadytread of a column of infantry passing, but she could not seethem--could distinguish no motion against the black background ofthe woods.
Standing there on the veranda, she listened to them marching by.From the duration of the sound she judged it to be only oneregiment, probably a new one arriving from the North.
A little while afterward she heard on some neighbouring hillsidethe far outbreak of hammering, the distant rattle of waggons, theclash of stacked muskets. Then, in sudden little groups, scatteredstarlike over the darkness, camp fires twinkled into flame. Thenew regiment had pitched its tents.
It was a pretty sight; she walked out along the fence to see moreclearly, stepping aside to avoid collision with a man in the dark,who was in a great hurry--a soldier, who halted to make hisexcuses, and, instead, took her into his arms with a breathlessexclamation.
"Philip!" she faltered, trembling all over.
"Darling! I forgot I was not to touch you!" He crushed her handsswiftl
y to his lips and let them drop.
"My little Ailsa! My--little--Ailsa!" he repeated under hisbreath--and caught her to him again.
"Oh--darling--we mustn't," she protested faintly. "Don't youremember, Philip? Don't you remember, dear, what we are to be toone another?"
He stood, face pressed against her burning cheeks; then his armencircling her waist fell away.
"You're right, dear," he said with a sigh so naively robust, soremarkably hearty, that she laughed outright--a very tremulous anduncertain laugh.
"What a tragically inclined boy! I never before heard a'thunderous sigh'; but I had read of them in poetry. Philip, tellme instantly how you came here!"
"Ran the guard," he admitted.
"No! Oh, dear, oh, dear!--and I told you not to. Philip!_Philip_! Do you want to get shot?"
"Now you know very well I don't," he said, laughing. "I spendevery minute trying not to. . . . And, Ailsa, what do you think?A little while ago when I was skulking along fences and lurking inditches--all for your sake, ungrateful fairone!--tramp--tramp--tramp comes a column out of the darkness!'Lord help us,' said I, 'it's the police guard, or some horriblemisfortune, and I'll never see my Ailsa any more!' Then I took asquint at 'em, and I saw officers riding, with about a thousandyards of gold lace on their sleeves, and I saw their music trudgingalong with that set of silver chimes aloft between two scarletyaks' tails; and I saw the tasselled fezzes and the white gaitersand--'Aha!' said I--'the Zou-Zous! But _which_?'
"And, by golly, I made out the number painted white on theirknapsacks; and, Ailsa, it was the 3d Zouaves, Colonel Craig!--justarrived! And there--on that hill--are their fires!"
"Oh, Phil!" she exclaimed in rapture, "how heavenly for Celia! I'mperfectly crazy to see Curt and Steve----"
"Please transfer a little of that sweet madness to me."
"Dear--I can't, can I?"
But she let him have her hands; and, resting beside him on the railfence, bent her fair head as he kissed her joined hands, let itdroop lower, lower, till her cheek brushed his. Then, turning veryslowly, their lips encountered, rested, till the faint fragrance ofhers threatened his self-control.
She opened her blue eyes as he raised his head, looking at himvaguely in the dusk, then very gently shook her head and rested onecheek on her open palm.
"I don't know," she sighed. "I--don't--know--" and closed her lidsonce more.
"Know what, dearest of women?"
"What is going to happen to us, Phil. . . . It seemsincredible--after our vows--after the lofty ideals we----"
"The ideals are there," he said in a low voice. And, in his tonethere was a buoyancy, a hint of something new to her--somethingalmost decisive, something of protection which began vaguely tothrill her, as though that guard which she had so long mounted overherself might be relieved--the strain relaxed---the duty left tohim.
She laid one hand on his arm, looked up, searching his face,hesitated. A longing to relax the tension of self-discipline cameover her--to let him guard them both--to leave all to him--let himfight for them both. It was a longing to find security in thecertainty of his self-control, a desire to drift, and let him beresponsible, to let him control the irresponsibility within her,the unwisdom, the delicate audacity, latent, mischievous, thatneeded a reversal of the role of protector and protected to blossomdeliciously into the coquetry that she had never dared.
"Are you to be trusted?" she asked innocently.
"Yes, at last. You know it. Even if I----"
"Yes, dear."
She considered him with a new and burning curiosity. It was thefeminine in her, wondering, not yet certain, whether it mightsafely dare.
"I suppose I've made an anchorite out of you," she ventured.
"You can judge," he said, laughing; and had her in his arms again,and kissed her consenting lips and palms, and looked down into thesweet eyes; and she smiled back at him, confident, at rest.
"What has wrought this celestial change in you, Phil?" shewhispered, listlessly humourous.
"What change?"
"The spiritual."
"Is there one? I seem to kiss you just as ardently."
"I know. . . . But--for the first time since I ever saw you--Ifeel that I am safe in the world. . . . It may annoy me."
He laughed.
"I may grow tired of it," she insisted, watching him. "I maybehave like a naughty, perverse, ungrateful urchin, and kick andscream and bite. . . . But you won't let me be hurt, will you?"
"No, child." His voice was laughing at her, but his eyes werecuriously grave.
She put both arms up around his neck with a quick catch of herbreath.
"I do love you--I do love you. I know it now, Phil--I know it as Inever dreamed of knowing it. . . . You will never let me be hurt,will you? Nothing can harm me now, can it?"
"Nothing, Ailsa."
She regarded him dreamily. Sometimes her blue eyes wandered towardthe stars, sometimes toward the camp fires on the hill.
"Perfect--perfect belief in--your goodness--to me," she murmuredvaguely. "Now I shall--repay you--by perversity--misbehaviour--Idon't know what--I don't know--what----"
Her lids closed; she yielded to his embrace; one slim, detaininghand on his shoulder held her closer, closer.
"You must--never--go away," her lips formed.
But already he was releasing her, pale but coolly master of thesituation. Acquiescent, inert, she lay in his arms, thenstraightened and rested against the rail beside her.
Presently she smiled to herself, looked at him, still smiling.
"Shall we go into Dr. West's office and have supper, Phil? I'm onduty in half an hour and my supper must be ready by this time; andI'm simply dying to have you make up for the indignity of thekitchen."
"You ridiculous little thing!"
"No, I'm not. I could weep with rage when I think of _you_ in thekitchen and--and-- Oh, never mind. Come, will you?" And she heldout her hand.
Her supper was ready, as she had predicted, and she delightedlymade room for him beside her on the bench, and helped him tofreshly baked bread and ancient tinned vegetables, and somedoubtful boiled meat, all of which he ate with an appetite and areckless and appreciative abandon that fascinated her.
"Darling!" she whispered in consternation, "don't they give you_anything_ in camp?"
"Sometimes," he enunciated, chewing vigorously on the bread. "Wedon't get much of this, darling. And the onions have all sprouted,and the potatoes are rotten."
She regarded him for a moment, then laughed hysterically.
"I _beg_ your pardon, Phil, but somehow this reminds me of our cookfeeding her policeman:--just for one tiny second, darling----"
They abandoned any effort to control their laughter. Ailsa hadbecome transfigured into a deliciously mischievous and bewilderingcreature, brilliant of lip and cheek and eye, irresponsible,provoking, utterly without dignity or discipline.
She taunted him with his appetite, jeered at him for his recent andmarvellous conversion to respectability, dared him to make love toher, provoked him at last to abandon his plate and rise and starttoward her. And, of course, she fled, crying in consternation:"Hush, Philip! You _mustn't_ make such a racket or they'll put usboth out!"--keeping the table carefully between them, dodging everystrategy of his, every endeavour to make her prisoner, quick,graceful, demoralising in her beauty and abandon. They behavedlike a pair of very badly brought up children, until she was inreal terror of discovery.
"Dearest," she pleaded, "if you will sit down and resume yourgnawing on that crust, I'll promise not to torment you. . . . Iwill, really. Besides, it's within a few minutes of my tour ofduty----"
She stopped, petrified, as a volley of hoof-beats echoed outside,the clash of arms and accoutrements rang close by the porch.
"Phil!" she gasped.
And the door opened and Colonel Arran walked in.
There was a dreadful silence. Arran stood face to face withBerkley, looked him
squarely in the eye where he stood at salute.Then, as though he had never before set eyes on him, Arran liftedtwo fingers to his visor mechanically, turned to Ailsa, uncovered,and held out both his hands.
"I had a few moments, Ailsa," he said quietly. "I hadn't seen youfor so long. Are you well?"
She was almost too frightened to answer; Berkley stood like astatue, awaiting dismissal, and later the certain consequences ofguard running.
And, aware of her fright, Arran turned quietly to Berkley:
"Private Ormond," he said, "there is a led-horse in my escort, incharge of Private Burgess. It is the easier and--safer route tocamp. You may retire."
Berkley's expression was undecipherable as he saluted, shot aglance at Ailsa, turned sharply, and departed.
"Colonel Arran," she said miserably, "it was all my fault. I amtoo ashamed to look at you."
"Let me do what worrying is necessary," he said quietly. "Iam--not unaccustomed to it. . . . I suppose he ran the guard."
She did not answer.
The ghost of a smile--a grim one--altered the Colonel's expressionfor a second, then faded. He looked at Ailsa curiously. Then:
"Have you anything to tell me that--perhaps I may be entitled toknow about, Ailsa?"
"No."
"I see. I beg your pardon. If you ever are--perplexed--indoubt--I shall always----"
"Thank you," she said faintly. . . . "And--I am so sorry----"
"So am I. I'm sorrier than you know--about more matters than youknow, Ailsa--" He softly smote his buckskin-gloved hands together,gazing at vacancy. Then lifted his head and squared his heavyshoulders.
"I thought I'd come when I could. The chances are that the armywill move if this weather continues. The cavalry will march outanyway. So I thought I'd come over for a few moments, Ailsa. . . .Are you sure you are quite well? And not overdoing it? Youcertainly look well; you appear to be in perfect health. . . . Iam very much relieved. . . . And--don't worry. Don't cherishapprehension about--anybody." He added, more to himself than toher: "Discipline will be maintained--_must_ be maintained. Thereare more ways to do it than by military punishments, I know thatnow."
He looked up, held out his hand, retained hers, and patted itgently.
"Don't worry, child," he said, "don't worry." And went out to theporch thoughtfully, gazing straight ahead of him as his horse wasbrought up. Then, gathering curb and snaffle, he set toe tostirrup and swung up into his saddle.
"Ormond!" he called.
Berkley rode up and saluted.
"Ride with me," said Colonel Arran calmly.
"Sir?"
"Rein up on the left." And, turning in his saddle, he motionedback his escort twenty paces to the rear. Then he walked his big,bony roan forward.
"Ormond?"
"Yes, Colonel."
"You ran the guard?"
"Yes, Colonel."
"Why?"
Berkley was silent.
The Colonel turned in his saddle and scrutinised him. The lancer'svisage was imperturbable.
"Ormond," he said in a low voice, "whatever you think ofme--whatever your attitude toward me is, I would like you tobelieve that I wish to be your friend."
Berkley's expression remained unchanged.
"It is my desire," said the older man, "my--very earnest--desire."
The young lancer was mute.
Arran's voice fell still lower:
"Some day--if you cared to--if you could talk over some--matterswith me, I would be very glad. Perhaps you don't entirelyunderstand me. Perhaps I have given you an erroneous impressionconcerning--matters--which it is too late to treat differently--inthe light of riper experience--and in a knowledge born ofyears--solitary and barren years----"
He bent his gray head thoughtfully, then, erect in his saddle again:
"I would like to be your friend," he said in a voice perceptiblyunder control.
"Why?" asked Berkley harshly. "Is there any reason on God's earthwhy I could ever forgive you?"
"No; no reason perhaps. Yet, you are wrong."
"Wrong!"
"I say so in the light of the past, Berkley. Once I also believedthat a stern, uncompromising attitude toward error was what Godrequired of an upright heart."
"Error! D-do you admit that?" stammered Berkley. "Are you awakeat last to the deviltry that stirred you--the damnable, misguided,distorted conscience that twisted you into a murderer of souls? ByGod, _are_ you alive to what you did to--_her_?"
Colonel Arran, upright in his saddle and white as death, rodestraight on in front of him.. Beside him, knee to knee, rodeBerkley, his features like marble, his eyes ablaze.
"I am not speaking for myself," he said between his teeth, "I amnot reproaching you, cursing you, for what you have done to me--forthe ruin you have made of life for me, excommunicating me fromevery hope, outlawing me, branding me! I am thinking, now, only ofmy mother. God!--to think--to _think_ of it--of her----"
Arran turned on him a face so ghastly that the boy was silenced.Then the older man said:
"Do you not know that the hell men make for others is what they aredestined to burn in sooner or later? Do you think you can tell meanything of eternal punishment?" He laughed a harsh, mirthlesslaugh. "Do you not think I have learned by this time thatvengeance is God's--and that He never takes it? It is man alonewho takes it, and suffers it. Humanity calls it justice. But Ihave learned that what the laws of men give you is never yours totake; that the warrant handed you by men is not for you to execute.I--have--learned--many things in the solitary years, Berkley. . . .But this--what I am now saying to you, here under the stars--is thefirst time I have ever, even to myself, found courage to confessChrist."
Very far away to the south a rocket rose--a slender thread of fire.Then, to the northward, a tiny spark grew brighter, flickered,swung in an arc to right, to left, dipped, soared, hung motionless,dipped again to right, to left, tracing faint crimson semicirclesagainst the sky.
Two more rockets answered, towering, curving, fading, leaving bluestars floating in the zenith.
And very, very far away there was a dull vibration of thunder, orof cannon.